


You Observe, But You Do Not See (aka: Enola, Gay?)

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/F, Gen, Language of Flowers, M/M, Period-Typical Sexism, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Enola Holmes is determined to make her brother Sherlock 🕵️ (OMG, sorry there is  Sherlock emoji! I had no idea!)  see reason and let her chart the course of her own life. Does he understand anything? Anything at all? Maybe he does. More than she realises. It all started with an unusual bouquet of flowers....
Relationships: Cecily Alistair/Enola Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	You Observe, But You Do Not See (aka: Enola, Gay?)

My mind was still giddy with its own usefulness, having determined the location of Doctor Watson and ensured his safe return mere weeks prior, so I set forth with a newfound determination to press my good favour. I would call upon my brother, Sherlock Holmes. It was my hope that he would afford me more control over my own destiny...if not as a show of gratitude, then perhaps upon evidence that my latest foray into perditorianism (for I was now most definitely a finder of lost people as well as lost things) was proof of my ability to forge my own path through life.

The meeting was a tense prospect indeed, and I was prepared to abandon my cause the moment it felt too precarious. I had time, and, though I knew not why, I had hope. Something within had clung to the notion that Sherlock had determined a boarding school of Mycroft’s choosing was unnecessary, though we had yet to meet to determine what, precisely, would be required. 

It had been Mycroft, after all, who had attempted to lure me with a false message within the pages of the Pall Mall. I began to wonder to what degree Sherlock was complicit in this ruse. Perhaps, having proven to be the less traditionally-minded of my two brothers, he might be more in common with our mother than I had initially supposed. Some of the traits I read of within Doctor Watson’s accounts seemed to support this view. Still, it was all too clear to me that he would find the degree of freedom my mother had attempted to gift me with (my mother’s name, Eudoria, means gift...perhaps as telling as mine, which backwards spells alone) as highly inappropriate. I thought upon Sherlock’s name, then scolded myself for having done so. A logician should not concern oneself with such things. Besides, ‘Sherlock’ means fair-haired, and he did not remotely fit this physical description. Though seeing Mycroft as a plot of land felt strangely apt.

My feet seemed to know their way while my mind continued to whirl. Before long, I found myself at his Baker Street address. 

I gave my card to the venerable Mrs Hudson, one of the few with my actual name upon it, and fidgeted with the seam of the bodice upon my rather plain dress. I was not wearing the elaborate gown of Miss Viola Everseau, nor her wig, faintest rouge, and birthmark. I looked as plain as ever, certain my nose once more commandeered my face in a less-than-regal manner. This was in part because I wished to see Sherlock whilst I was dressed as my true self, and in part because I wished to maintain that disguise, should the meeting prove unfavourable. I was led upstairs to the parlour.

Sherlock greeted me dressed in equally simple garb—a dark morning suit— though the simplicity of it translated to elegance upon a man. He had insisted upon taking my black wool cloak, though a chill still gripped the air within his home, which he hardly seemed affected by. I assumed there was some ridiculous ladies protocol regarding the presence of outerwear within indoor spaces, and I surrendered it to him without protest. Now was the time to offer demonstration that I could navigate such demands, that there was no need to be forced into respecting them. He hung it upon a hat and coat rack in front of a largish bouquet of flowers, nearly knocking them over in the process. 

While not exactly sinister, as the one sent to Mrs Watson had been, this floral arrangement was most definitely peculiar. Even the placement of them, upon a small pedestal by the front door, seemed unusual. They were far from artful. Of fine quality, fresh and lovely, but certainly lacking any cohesion as a bouquet. They appeared to be arranged in something of a spiral. I could see at its centre an overly-large red camellia, “the flame of one’s heart”, looking rather unbalanced drowning in a sea of bright yellow tulips.

He watched me assess them in silent judgment before clearing his throat and stepping to the side, hands gesturing at the display.

“Ah! You are one of those who believe flowers to hold some purpose other than the practical one—providing a pleasing scent. Why should they not be placed by my front door to greet me after braving the fierce assault upon all the senses, certainly not excluding the olfactory, which we call London?”

“They seem a tad chaotic, is all.” I turned toward the sitting room proper. There were scattered books everywhere and an abandoned chemistry experiment disgraced the breakfast table. “As do all your rooms, I suppose.”

“I assure you, there is always purpose to be found amidst the chaos. Everything has its proper place, albeit at times an unconventional one.” He walked toward the fireplace and bade me rest upon a settee. I did so as demurely as possible, recalling my time spent in Mrs Watson’s parlour, sipping tea. Though I had been in character then, it was still me beneath the artifice; I was not without grace. I glanced toward the flames. They were comforting on such a bitterly cold morning as this, and I inched ever closer to them. “I have read of the cigars in your coal scuttle,” I said.

He grinned.

I waved my arm toward the busy street. “I was led to believe you enjoyed London. The bustle of people. All that. Surely, its odors no longer faze you.”

“You know me from the stories, Enola. Imagine if I only knew you from what someone chose to write about you, destined to appear to the general public within the pages of the Strand.”

I had never before questioned what was written of Sherlock as in any way inaccurate. Doctor Watson seemed to me a quite honest and straightforward man. I said as much.

“When it comes to writing of sordid topics such as murder suitably for consumption by the masses, there is much to be less than forthcoming about. Though you are correct to not doubt Watson’s sincerity. He is straightforward. Even when he changes the stories to protect the innocent, he feels obligated to inform the reader he has done so.” He looked at me a moment more before turning to the fireplace and poking at the coals therin. The poker seemed slightly misshapen, and I wondered if it was the very same which he had straightened with his bare hands after the threatening visit from Doctor Roylott. “The stories may be presented as fact, but within them lies a good deal of fiction. Still, you are a young girl, Enola. There are, things, with which you might not be so well-acquainted, as well as things which the public is not yet prepared to read.”

“I am hardly your typical girl!”

“I did not mean that as a criticism against your— Nevermind.” He waved away the comment as inconsequential. It was far too late for that.

I was so much more than just an ordinary girl. And, furthermore, any girl was, or rather, could be, so much more than ordinary. Sherlock may dismiss women's emotions, intuition, even insight as puzzling or too inconsequential to be worth the effort, but I was just as capable of logical thought as he. There was, in fact, much I could instruct him upon, if given the chance. Such as...such as his flowers, for example! My brain struggled to retrieve the word I wished to use to describe them. All I could find was “ridiculous”, though there was a far better one I sought. A word I had once heard my grandmother, Hadassah, use to express her disappointment in my sole attempt at quilting. It had sounded odd, and though I was young I believed it to be no true English word, yet certainly no curse. Mother frowned when I attempted to use it myself, and I had long since forgotten it. Seeing the arrangement nearly brought it forth from its dusty crevice within my own brain attic, and I found myself saddened at the loss. 

Being a young woman, I could tell him what each of his mismatched flowers meant. I did not know much of tulips without referencing my book, but any woman knew yellow was hardly an auspicious color for any bouquet. A yellow rose, for example, was for jealousy or infidelity. Comprising the outer orbit of the arrangement, far more visible, was a flower I immediately recognised as hyssop, and knew to mean a great sacrifice. No man would know such things! They would simply ask a florist to create a well-designed bouquet to serve their amorous pursuits. It was up to us women to interpret them correctly. Much depended on it.

It was clear the visit was off to a more inauspicious start than a romantic proposal made with those flowers, and this was no time to discuss my future. Sherlock paused some more, giving me a chance to rethink my position, to cool down my passions. Clearly he was far better at regulating them than I, for certainly our mother’s blood ran through both our veins. He rose to retrieve my cloak, blocking the garish flowers from view. “I thank you for your assistance in locating Dr Watson. Time was of the essence and, two heads were certainly better than one.” It was patronizing talk which served only to infuriate me. He extended his long arm to hold it out for me from some distance away, and I snatched it from his grasp.

I had been rather delighted to have seen the acknowledgement of my efforts in securing Doctor Watson’s release in print, and not even in code. Sherlock must have won that battle over Mycroft, for I couldn’t imagine his ever wishing to appear in error or to have his dirty laundry aired in any conceivable manner, but I remembered well Sherlock’s face when he saw his friend again. Unguarded joy. Surely he had composed the notice and Mycroft had reluctantly agreed to it. I had hoped it was more evidence that my brothers were not of the same mind. Still, I now was being both acknowledged and summarily dismissed within the very same sentence! 

Had he placed any value on such “inconsequential” things as flowers, he could have saved Doctor Watson himself! He already had taken a list of his former patients! He already knew of the existence of the costume shop, had even shopped there before it was… contaminated… with femininity and no longer worthy of his notice! I glanced toward the flowers once more, about to use them as evidence against him in my tirade on how he could have found his friend, had he not been so blind to the worth of half the population...his ignorance of such matters being commonplace to any woman alive. I do not know what stopped me. Certainly I was fortunate some common sense remained within my arsenal of emotions, for it would have been a cruel retort. I did stare at that bouquet long enough to have caught his eye, which was when he interrupted my thoughts in a most insouciant manner with that all-too-familiar arrogant grin.

“I picked them out myself. I suppose one might also find the brightness of the colors somewhat...cheery. Do you?”

I most certainly did not. I shook my head and barely hid my disdain. That he had requested them made all the sense in the world, for no florist in their right mind would choose such flowers. Sherlock knew nothing of their hidden secrets. Such was the domain of women; it lay beyond his feeble grasp. As did my need to preserve my freedom at all costs. Reasoning with him would be an impossibility, and I was a fool to have ever thought otherwise. 

“Good day, Sherlock,” I said, as I let loose a small curtsy and took my leave.

Perhaps I could find suitable words at a later time. And not in person. 

One could write and rewrite a letter and be assured of not misspeaking in the heat of an argument, though I was already composing a scathing letter in my head on the carriage ride home upon how women’s arts were not simply useless ways of attracting young men but the basis of communication, and were he not so cold and heartless a man as to have even eschewed romantic inclinations he would have at least seen the value in knowing them for the sake of interpreting a women’s more subtle advances, if nothing else! 

Doctor Watson had been correct in his portrayal of Sherlock Holmes as a machine. How could a machine ever understand my need for freedom? To not spend my days married off to some gentleman deemed “pleasant enough”? If I should have a child, would I have plotted to leave her, as my own mother had left me, unable to bear that yoke? I was fighting not just for mysel, but on behalf of the daughter I might someday have. Whom I might someday abandon. What would protect me from that fate, aside from a firm determination to remain...alone?

At home, I was determined to prevent the shedding of tears by bolstering my anger sufficiently to prevent any other emotion from surfacing. Surely even a mechanical man knew the value of some womanly arts. Of housekeeping? Cooking? Of course I was rubbish at such things, but at least the promise of food must have some universally understood value, for what bachelor establishment could run without a decent cook?

I grabbed the book my mother had gifted me in order to reference the flowers, to assist with my assault on paper. Certain I could teach my wiser, older brother a thing or two, I attempted to recall them all from memory: hyssop, monkshood, yellow tulips, bluebells. I jotted them down, each flower less suitable than the one before, then sat upon my comfortable chair and glanced over the list as a whole.

There had been a single camelia in the center, I recalled—it was what had initially drawn my eye—but of the rest I was far less certain. I closed my eyes to best picture the arrangement. The garish yellow tulips had been next. I believed them to have a negative meaning, as did most yellow flowers, and was correct to find they stood for a hopeless and desperate love. I chuckled to myself. A thoroughly unsuitable bouquet indeed!

I took out my sketchbook. Sketching would help me visualise the full arrangement, but it was always far more than a tool for my memory; it often helped me think. Circling round the hopeless tulips was a flower I had not seen before, clearly some form of briar rose. Well, roses were harmless enough, and this one was a bright pink, though the center was indeed yellow. I knew hyssop meant sacrifice, monkshood was a warning against a deadly foe, thistle stood for endurance and nobility. They all flanked the unknown rose, with a second variety of rose mixed in as well. That one I recognised as a Christmas Rose. Of course it was not a true rose at all (more formally known as hellebore) and I knew it to symbolise serenity, tranquility and peace— associated with its holiday namesake. I looked it up to confirm that it did represent all three emotions, but next to the illustration was a small notation that it might also mean a scandal or anxiety. How very odd. In a delicate script beneath the illustration it was written, “Tranquilise me”. 

The next flower circling out from the center was a few clusters of yellow rhododendron, with a list of meanings longer than its overly tall and awkward stem: friendship, apology, intense emotion, undying love, extreme betrayal, a broken heart, infidelity, jealousy. Why any flower would ever be used in a bouquet with such a wide variety of interpretations was beyond me. Truly a scattered and disheveled mess of an arrangement, and I found myself almost annoyed at its very existence. Though Sherlock said he had chosen them for their scent, it still felt so very inappropriate for someone to have created such a composition. It was art gone wrong, as ill-fitted as Shelley’s monster. Surely my brother could relate to the discord of incorrect notes within a concerto? How could one know if they were meant as an apology to a dear friend or a representation of the intense emotion of the betrayed and brokenhearted? 

I sketched a peony and a hydrangea, larger flowers which looked out of place in the outer reaches of the bouquet rather than at its centre, and then went back to add some more detail to the camilia. As I was imagining the bouquet, my mind snagged upon a new form of inconsistency. A camillia had no scent. Nor did the hydrangea, for that matter. I paused, dropped my pencil, and returned to my reference book with a newfound ferocity. 

It seemed far-fetched, but I had a duty to explore all possibilities. What if the flowers were not chosen without meaning in mind, but were rather chosen with an all-too-precise awareness of their meaning? Of all their meanings, in fact. 

I listed every last one of them.

The next flower had been a peony. Happy marriage...and shame. A hydrangea for frigidity, heartlessness, cruelty. The illustration’s alternative interpretation read, in its pristine script, “Thank you for your understanding.” 

I looked through the illustrations of roses now, believing those in the centre, closest to the heart of the bouquet (the red camellia), to have a deeper significance. Finding none which resembled the one I had sketched from memory, I began to look through the list of meanings attributed to various varieties of roses. The Prairie Rose, also known as a Carolina Rose, lacked an illustration for it was not native to England. Such an uncommon flower must have been expensive, even for a well-stocked florist, and would never have been included without intention. Rare as it was, its meaning was recorded nonetheless and was painfully precise: “Love is dangerous”. 

Geraniums meant folly, stupidity, and a true friend. Broad enough to be either meaningless or a scathingly precise reprimand. It became clear to me that these flowers had never been intended as a presentation from someone to someone. They were still undoubtedly a message, however. And if my brother had chosen each flower himself, they were a message which he had created as his own reminder— it would speak with no less clear a voice within his head than the mingling of my mother’s and my own which frequently informed me that I would be just fine alone. 

His was a message of a hopeless love which nonetheless possessed one's entire heart. A love encompassed by fear, danger, a need for protection against anxiety and scandal, not to mention deadly foes. Warnings. The next layer was entirely comprised of conflicting emotions. The outermost layer...the one visible on the external edges of the bouquet, was dedicated to practical advice. The nobility and endurance of the thistle and the humility and loyalty of the bluebell.

I had been staring straight at my brother’s heart.

I know he had once accused Doctor Watson of seeing without observing. I had observed without seeing.

In retrospect, it seemed obvious. Of course he knew flower codes. He knew all manner of codes. All sorts of secret messages. He was far too good a detective to remain ignorant of any method of clandestine communication. 

I shook my head. How many other things had I gotten wrong? Maybe he _was_ on my side. Someone I could trust. Maybe he was looking out for me already. Maybe… Maybe he had written that other cypher warning me of Mycroft’s trap? Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this was just a random bunch of flowers that...no. No, they weren’t. The question of whether or not he had sent the message which had read “ALONE PART PART ALONE” was already beginning to take the altogether-too-familiar circuitous path through my head—doubt, followed by certainty, followed by doubt once more—but the flowers were beyond coincidence. 

The only issue at hand was, were they truly meant for Sherlock’s own sake, or were they meant to be delivered to someone else? If so, they would be gone by the end of the day. A wilted bouquet sent a message all its own, after all. I had to see if they were still there in the morning. If they were gone, they had been meant to warn another. I was not sure which scenario was the better one. To send such a bouquet could only be a firm response to some inquiry, but one item of singular importance was missing from the message if it was to be a reply. There had been no variegated carnations,whuch would indicate a firm “no”. Indeed, it was a bouquet filled with warnings, reasons it wasn’t feasible, and advice, but it lacked rejection. 

Had I missed something within the stories? _Someone_ , rather? I doubted it. It seemed far more likely to be what Sherlock had alluded to this morning...something that wasn’t suitable for the pages of The Strand.

That, combined with the flowers themselves, suggested it was illicit. And yet, I could not imagine that to be the case. My brother is an honourable man. True, I know little of him, his having left when I was so very young, but I liked to think I knew him. What I was certain I knew little of was love itself. 

I could not imagine anyone absconding with my heart. Still, if someone had, why should I not pursue it? Why should he not? There was no pressing need to consider financial reasons, and I was confident that social status was of no great concern to him. Besides, Mother was our only living relative, save Mycroft, and she had taken herself rather neatly out of the picture. And Mycroft could go hang. 

So it must be someone who would not have chosen him. Would not return the sentiment. But in that case, why the warning? Why a reminder to not pursue if rejection were, in fact, ensured? It made little sense.

What did I know about the workings of love? The great poets were always vexed; love never went according to plan. It all seemed rather doomed to me. A promise of torment. Those writers I had sought out from Mother’s collection, both poets and essayists, had spoken of women demanding marriage must mean friendship as well as passion, and love should encompass a certain degree of equality, so perhaps such things might be yet to come. I was rather in agreement with Edward Carpenter, who said all attachment was more or less the same. “We know, in fact, of Friendships so romantic in sentiment that they verge into love; we know of Loves so intellectual and spiritual that they hardly dwell in the sphere of Passion,” he had said. If I were to have a love, I should think it would be an intellectual one. But I had not yet had a love. I had had only had...an interest. A...curiosity, perhaps. A distraction. A beautiful woman like the Lady Cecily was fascinating in that she was all that I was not, effortlessly. Why should I not think of someone so lovely and so clever with a degree of admiration? But this was not about me! This was about my brother. 

My brother was perhaps disinterested in love. Only in friendship. And what line lay between the two terms for him was beyond my comprehension. For anyone, for that matter. One could wish to spend a lifetime with a friend. One might never have another for whom they felt equal longing. And if that were mutual, who was to say that was not love? If both saw it as such?

But if one did not?

Or if one was uncertain of the sentiments of the other?

Why, then there would be a line, would there not? A line too fraught with peril to risk the crossing? What to gain and what to lose. That was a dangerous love indeed. 

In any case, it was a private matter, until he might wish it not to be so.

I did not trust Sherlock. Was it possible that he did not trust me as well? 

I must admit this bristled. I was certainly worthy of anyone’s trust. for what reason would he not? But then again, perhaps my brother and I shared more than our interest in puzzles and our less-than-favorable facial features. I do not toss about terms like “soulmate” lightly, but I felt I had one in my dear left-handed lady. There was something between us that was undefinable. Her brilliant eyes, her lovely hair, but above all, that compassionate and courageous heart. She and I had a certain unspoken trust. A trust that I had not felt from anyone else in this world. My mother… my mother had also been a woman of great compassion and courage, but I had had to let her go. I was prepared to let Lady Cecily go as well. Not into the arms of the horrid Bramwell in forced matrimony, but to go towards whatever her future genuinely held for her. I would always make sure I had that distance, that ability to let her go. To be as free as she needed to be. As free as my mother. As free as myself. 

I have heard if you love something, set it free. The logician in me cannot help but wonder, is the converse true as well? If you have set something free, does that mean you have loved it?

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t resist making fun of atomic weaponry. This is what happens when history majors are presented with someone named Enola.  
> Anyways, researching the Language of Flowers was a bitch and a half, and it drove me crazy with the myriad interpretations. I did keep the characterisation of the book series and not the movie. Would love to hear what y’all think!


End file.
